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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685984">chance encounters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics'>fluffysfics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, M/M, Mild canon divergence, The Master Has Feelings, canon-compliant sad ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:47:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time ‘Agent O’ runs into the Doctor, he finds himself reconsidering everything he’s worked on since he regenerated. It’s very inconvenient, and it only gets worse as the years go by.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eleventh Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>chance encounters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Today’s the day</em>. </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>MI6 is buzzing. The Master notices it the moment he sits down, flashing a vague smile at the one coworker who bothers to call a ‘hey, O’ in his direction. They’ve all been buzzing for weeks, now, of course, ever since the cubes popped up. There’s one on his desk, holding down a stack of papers. They’re undoubtedly evil, but until they actively try to kill him, the Master is going to keep it there anyway. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>There’s been talk for a few days, now, that a Mysterious Expert is going to come in and talk about the cubes with the scientists down in the lab. This Mysterious Expert is seemingly researching them, and is apparently the only person who could possibly figure out exactly what they are. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master knows exactly who the Mysterious Expert is. And he’s ready. It’s what this whole persona is crafted for, after all. What every day of his life for the last two boring, <em>boring</em> years has been leading up to. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He picks up the cube, tossing it idly in the air. It spins, hangs for a second, and drops back down neatly into his palm. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Time to catch himself a Doctor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Half an hour later, there’s a tangible <em>shift</em> in the air. A TARDIS landing, a little way away from here. In...the downstairs supply cupboard, if his senses are as accurate as they used to be. The Master drums his fingers against his desk, and looks as busy with statistical analysis as he possibly can. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It’s not more than five minutes before the Doctor bursts into the room, trailed by a tall ginger woman, a mildly perturbed looking man with a very impressive nose, and several of his bosses. The MI6 bigwigs look <em>incredibly</em> annoyed, and the Master bites back his smugness at that fact. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Doctor, if you’d just come with us to the <em>lab</em>-“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nope! No, labs are boring, I’ve got labs coming out of my ears. Got a better lab than this at <em>UNIT</em>.” He grins. The Master is instantly annoyed, and finds himself glad that he never ran into this version of the Doctor as Missy. She would have smacked him with her umbrella the second he opened his mouth. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Um- she does have a point, Doctor. Why are we here, if not for the lab?” That was the man with the nose, speaking up. Who were his companions right now? The Master thinks. Amy and Rory, ah yes. They won’t be around much longer, if he remembers the files correctly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“People! Humans! MI6, best and brightest humans in the world. Humans are <em>cool</em>.” The Doctor leans over, ruffling the hair of a woman a few desks away from the Master who looks slightly too stunned to be annoyed about it. “Aren’t you all great?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You probably don’t want to talk to our analysts, Doctor, they’re-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, hush. Amy, Rory, go follow that lot to their lab, keep ‘em busy for me.” He waves his hand somewhat dismissively at them. Amy, to her credit, does at least smack the hand before turning on her heel and leading everyone except the Doctor off out of the room. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Doctor clasps his hands, rocks back and forth on his heels, and beams at them all. “Hi,” he says, sounding like a delighted child. “Who’s got something to tell me about <em>cubes</em>?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Immediately, the Master fixes an eager smile on his face. He’s about to speak, and then he remembers who O is, and raises his hand. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes! You. What’s your name?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“O,” he says, still smiling. “Agent O.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“O?” The Doctor seems to find this very funny, although he doesn’t laugh out loud. His delight is written into every line of his body, and if the Master wasn’t ridiculously angry at him, he’d find it sweet how much it reminds him of their Academy days. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yep. O. So- the cubes. They’re completely ordinary, aren’t they? <em>Weirdly</em> ordinary. Don’t react to anything.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Anything?” The Doctor tilts his head, and smiles, and the Master knows he’s caught his interest. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, I haven’t been able to test <em>everything</em>, I’m not like the boys in the lab,” he admits, putting on a sheepish expression. “But- I have a taser.” In actual fact, he’s blasted one with his TCE, which is a hell of a lot stronger than a taser. But still, nothing. “Most things do <em>something</em> when you tase them.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But not the cubes,” the Doctor says. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not the cubes,” the Master agrees. “Tried hitting them with a lot of stuff, too. And I stuck one in the oven for a bit. Well- I was making a cake, actually-“ he hears the snickers from a couple of people around the room, apparently highly amused at the knowledge that he <em>baked things</em>, and puts a little more ‘sad puppy dog’ into his expression, as if their laughter had hurt him greatly. “I was making a cake, and I needed something to balance the second tin on. Oven’s only got one shelf, and it’s a bit small.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You <em>baked</em> a cube,” the Doctor says, doing that happy little almost-clapping thing again. “I like you, Agent O.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master makes a blush rise to his cheeks, rests his chin on his hand, and beams up at the Doctor like he’s smitten. “Thanks, Doctor. Not so bad yourself.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the Doctor’s done questioning his colleagues about cubes, he darts off out of the room, and a tension leaves the air. Everyone else goes back to their work. The Master sits there, counts out fifteen seconds, and then jumps up from his desk and bolts down the corridor after him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’s convincingly out of breath by the time he catches up with the Doctor, all wide-eyed and flustered and sweet. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Doctor! Doctor. Hi. Sorry- sorry, about my colleagues, they can be a bit, um- well, you know.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ah, don’t worry about it. Humans! They’re all very <em>human</em>, sometimes. You, Agent O, are a very good human.” The Doctor pokes him on the end of the nose, and the Master goes cross-eyed as he looks at the finger. It’s either that, or trying to bite it off, and he doesn’t think that’ll endear him to the Doctor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh. Well- thank you. See- I, um- I have a <em>thing</em>, for aliens.” That’s a very deliberately worded comment, and he sees the Doctor do a slight double take, trying to work out if he’s being flirted with. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll have you know I’m <em>married</em>, O.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Like that’s ever stopped you before, the Master thinks privately.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He lets his eyes widen, and blushes again, raising his hands. “Oh! No- no! I didn’t mean it like- like <em>that</em>! I just meant- um- I like researching aliens. Researching! That’s all. Promise. And, well- you’re fascinating. Best part of my research, looking at you.” He gives the Doctor those smitten eyes again, and they work their charm for the second time that day. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do you have a real name, Agent O?” The Doctor reaches out, and brushes something off of his shoulder. The Master has to force himself not to tense at the touch. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes. Can’t tell you what it is,” he says, cheerfully. Maintain a little mystery. Keep him interested. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Something tells me that <em>you’re</em> the fascinating one, here.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master pulls out another situationally appropriate blush. It’s difficult to do, but it works every time. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So, Agent O, do you want to see something incredible?” The Doctor’s eyes glitter, and he’s all <em>serious</em>, past the smile- it’s fascinating to watch, mesmerising. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh,” he breathes, and to his annoyance, he only has to exaggerate the emotion in his voice <em>slightly</em>. “I really, really do.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Perfect. Come on, let me—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Doctor! There you are. Ooh, and hello, pretty spy boy.” Amy’s back, Rory hot on her heels, and the moment is over. The Master’s shoulders sink. “Doctor, you need to take us home now. Rory’s gonna be late for work, thought you said this was gonna be <em>quick</em>.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, well- got sidetracked, a bit. Agent O! Got a pen?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master nods, scrabbling through his pockets and digging one out. The Doctor grabs it, and his hand, and scrawls a long number on it. He tilts his head, studying the digits. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is that-“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Phone number! Text me, and I’ll get around to you eventually. Promise.” He grins, and ruffles the Master’s hair, and then he’s off, dashing back towards the downstairs supply cupboard. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master takes out his phone, calmly. He types in the number, and puts his phone away, and walks to the bathroom, <em>calmly</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It’s only when he’s sure he’s alone that he slams a fist into the bathroom mirror, letting out a roar of frustration. Blood oozes from his knuckles, and he turns on the tap, scrubbing at his fingers, scrubbing at the number on his arm, scrubbing away every trace that the Doctor has ever touched him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He can’t stand that man. He <em>can’t</em>. He really really can’t. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Yeah, no, apparently he’s still terrible at lying to himself. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>——</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You! Yes, you at the back, with the sunglasses and the hat- see me after class!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master freezes, well aware that the Doctor is talking about him. Fuck. He hadn’t been expecting to be noticed; he’d just come here to find out what the Doctor had been getting up to whilst Missy was stuck in the Vault. He’d never been very forthcoming about his teaching career, except to complain about the students. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He sits through the rest of a lecture that’s somehow about eight different subjects and absolutely nothing at all, and remembers how Agent O is supposed to act. It’s always harder to pull off his persona around the Doctor, although he’s mostly gotten used to it over text by now. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The rest of the students file out of the lecture theatre, chatting amongst themselves, and the Master follows them, waiting until they’ve all left before clearing his throat to get the Doctor’s attention. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hi,” he says. “Been a long time since we’ve—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I like your sunglasses,” the Doctor says, completely unexpectedly, and the Master blinks. “I can appreciate a good pair of sunglasses. Where’d you get ‘em?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Um,” he says, and takes the sunglasses off. “Doctor? Don’t you recognise me?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Doctor squints at him. “Should I?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well- yeah. We text. Sometimes. Less than we used to.” He tries to look sad about that, and wonders if there’s any point to it at all. He remembers, now, that this Doctor is utterly useless at faces. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>There’s a bit more squinting. “Oh! Agent what’s-his-face, with the big sad eyes. Yes, yes, I remember you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Agent O,” the Master reminds him, feeling somewhat put out. <em>Big sad eyes</em>?</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If you say so.” The Doctor goes back to packing up his lecture notes, which seem to consist mostly of strange calculations instead of actual notes, and are scattered all over the desk. “Now- got to go. Good to see you, I’m sure, Agent what’s-his-face.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“O,” says the Master, testily. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, yes,” the Doctor says, and bustles off out of the room without so much as a glance back. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’d forgotten just how rude this incarnation of the Doctor was. Well-matched for his own previous self, but the Master was finding it grating after- what, two minutes? </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Honestly, he thinks, dropping his sunglasses on the floor and grinding the heel of his boot into them. He didn’t even ask what an MI6 agent was doing in his lecture. He <em>deserves</em> what’s coming to him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>——</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master fully expects that he’ll be pulling off his plan with that grumpy, rude old man of a Doctor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>So when a loud, Northern blonde woman comes blazing into MI6 like a wildfire, talking to everyone and everything and casually fixing the office coffee machine in the middle of chatting to one of his bosses, he is taken completely by surprise. It’s a good thing C isn’t here today, he thinks. Ridiculous old man would probably have an aneurysm at the sight of her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She seems to be talking about someone named Tim Shaw, but her hearts aren’t entirely in it. The Master expects her to turn and smile at him, ask for his help, but she doesn’t. She hasn’t texted him that much, lately; hasn’t done since she regenerated into the Scottish one. He tells himself he’s worried about that because of The Plan, and not at all just because he misses talking to her. <em>Her</em>. That’s going to take some getting used to. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Doctor sweeps off out of the office, and the Master finds himself oddly disappointed that she didn’t speak to him. He should be relieved. Playing O is about ten times more tiring than usual in front of the Doctor, because he always wants to punch them square in the face. No matter what they look like. Admittedly he wants to punch most of his colleagues, too, but that’s a less pressing urge. Humans are annoying, but their presence hardly compares to what the Doctor has done to him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And then his phone buzzes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Hi. Meet me in the supply cupboard!</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master stares at it, sighs, and then obediently gets up from his desk, trotting down to the supply cupboard as sweetly as he can, only letting a scowl drop over his features when there aren’t any humans in sight. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He opens the door, and finds the Doctor in there, leaning against her TARDIS, and pointing her sonic at a roll of duct tape. He can’t possibly imagine why, but she hastily puts it back when she hears him come in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“O! Hi. Sorry- bit of a shock, I bet. New face. Very different. D’you like it?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I-“ The Master blinks, and realises he’s not even going to have to lie. He hates himself for that. “I really do. I think it’s fantastic.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Doctor grins a little self-consciously, rocking back and forth on her heels and bouncing closer to him. “So. Came here to talk to you, really. All that stuff I was saying to your bosses- very boring. Doesn’t matter. Already fixed it. Cover story, see- I’m pickin’ up the spy stuff!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Tim Shaw?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Tzim Sha, technically. Stenza.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master’s eyes widen. He knows about the Stenza. Difficult opponents, even for a Time Lord. Even for her. “Impressive,” he breathes. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You know what a Stenza is?” The Doctor tilts her head, and frowns. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Oops. Maybe that was going a little too far. “Um- vaguely,” he blusters. “Came up in my research. Very fearsome. And, um- blue. That’s all I saw.” He tilts his head right back at her, and blinks innocently. Apparently that still seems to work on her. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re an impressive man, O. Very interesting.” The Doctor leans back against the TARDIS doors once more, and it takes the Master a moment of stunned silence before he remembers to smile and blush at the praise. This Doctor is...distracting to him, in a way she hasn’t been since...her eighth self? Perhaps the tenth, on a good day. And she’s not even <em>trying</em> to be. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Not too bad yourself,” he manages to say, stepping forward. He reaches up, filling his movements with O’s clumsy hesitancy, and runs his hands almost reverently down the Doctor’s arms. She tenses like she’s expecting to hate it, and then frowns curiously, and relaxes again. Interesting, the Master notes, stowing that tidbit away in his head for later. “Obviously knew you could change your face, but- your gender, too?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Apparently.” The Doctor grins wryly. “Hope that doesn’t put you off. Hope <em>I</em> didn’t put you off last time we met, actually. That was rude. Sorry.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He remembers his faux-accidental flirting with the bowtie one, and grins back at her. “Not in the slightest. Very flexible, me.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That gets <em>her</em> flushing, to the Master’s delight. As O, he just keeps up the grin, shuffles maybe half a step closer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good to know,” the Doctor says, clearing her throat. She snatches a few things from the supply cupboard’s shelves, starting to twist them together in her fingers. He wonders if she’s even aware that she’s doing it. Probably not, because she hasn’t taken her eyes off of him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why’d you want to come talk to me? Could have just texted,” he prompts gently, gazing into the Doctor’s eyes. They’re a deep greenish-hazel, and they seem to draw him in with the depths of the sadness inside them, the wisdom, and the bright sparkle glimmering on top of it all. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Yeah. Um- wanted to apologise for that, actually. Or...not-that. Lack of that? Sorry for not texting you more, that’s what I wanted to say. Promised you a trip in the box at some point, didn’t I? Haven’t made good on that yet. I will. But, um...not now. Kinda keeping my fam waiting.” She grins sheepishly, and the Master forces himself not to compulsively screw up his face in disgust at ‘<em>fam</em>’. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Right,” he says, and the look of disappointment that steals across his face is entirely genuine. “Won’t take up more of your time. I know you’re busy.” He steps back, fiddling with his hands, and the Doctor’s face falls. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey, hey, no! Not what I meant. Bad with words, this time.” She springs back up to her full height, which is an inch or so shorter than him, the Master notes with some pleasure. This self of his is hardly tall, even plenty of his female colleagues here have a couple of inches on him. He does <em>not</em> like being short. The Doctor dumps her pile of junk back on a shelf, and rests her hands firmly on his shoulders. “I want you to be taking up a lot <em>more</em> of my time, Agent O.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>This, she says very seriously, and she holds his gaze as she says it. The Master blinks at her, but before he can say anything in response, she’s leaping off back into her TARDIS. He hears human voices inside for just a moment, before the door slams shut, and he sighs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When her ship has faded out of existence, the Master drags a hand down the side of his face, and crosses over to the shelf. She appears to have co-opted a small pile of paperclips, rubber bands, and pencils, and formed them into the shape of- a heart. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>His face twists with anger, and he snatches the crude creation off of the shelf, tearing it roughly in half. Bits of paperclip fly everywhere, one striking him in the cheek, but the Master doesn’t stop until the damn thing lies in shreds on the floor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Did the Doctor even know what she was making? He doubts it. Does it mean anything? Again, he doubts it. She’s full of love, but not for him. Even this human version of him. The bowtie one treated O more like an amusing little pastime, or a pet, and the Master had been fine with that. Easier not to get attached. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He stares at the shredded office equipment on the floor, mute with rage. How <em>dare</em> she. How dare she come along, and be so utterly, utterly <em>perfect</em> for him? This is a version of the Doctor that he wants to get to know, wants to pick apart every tiny detail of, wants to know how she feels in his arms when she’s scared, when she’s happy, when she’s seething with as much anger as he currently is. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master slams a fist into the wall hard enough to dent the plaster, and then he takes the rest of the day off work. It’s completely impossible to focus when he can’t get <em>her</em> out of his head. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>——</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She keeps her promise to text him more, and the Master can’t decide if he’s delighted or if he hates it. The <em>selfies</em> are obnoxious; photos of her and ‘the fam’, crowded together in frame while vast alien landscapes swoop off into the distance behind them. She’s collected an odd assortment of pets to babysit this time, and he refuses point-blank to call them by their names in his head, even though he knows them all by now.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The other texts that the Doctor sends, however, are pure torture. They always seem to reach him late at night, so he guesses she must be sending them when she’s alone. She tells him of being tired, of not being able to trust, of feeling undervalued and small and of wishing that she could just <em>stop everything</em> for a while. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>They’re the sort of deeply personal things that the Master wants her only to share with <em>him</em>, ever. They make him possessive, protective, <em>angry</em>- oddly, they make him angry that the only person she trusts to share these things with is a spy she barely knows. If she can’t share with <em>him</em>, the real him, then at the very least she should be close enough with her human pets that they could help. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>But clearly, she’s not. The Doctor trusts O, instead. And the Master knows that she doesn’t know who O really is, and he knows that he should be revelling in her misery, in how upset she’ll be when she finds out his identity- but he’s <em>not</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the Doctor sleepily messages him a long, rambling paragraph about how much she wants to kiss him, the Master almost throws his phone at the wall in despair. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the Doctor confides in him that he’s the only person she can really trust these days, he sits in front of his TARDIS console for three hours straight and contemplates calling his whole plan off. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t, of course. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He finds the harsh, burning anger that never entirely seems to fade from inside his chest these days, and although it’s reluctant, he drags it through him and lets it burn away as much of the guilt as possible. Never quite all of it, though, no matter how hard he tries. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Master sets his plan into motion, and it goes perfectly. <em>Perfectly</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That’s what he tells himself. When he reveals his identity on that crashing aeroplane, sees the look of shocked betrayal on the Doctor’s face, he feels something deep in his chest curl up and cry out in pain, and a traitorous voice in the back of his head tells him that he didn’t have to do this. He still doesn’t. He could stop. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t stop. He’s the Master, after all, and what is he if he can’t hurt the Doctor? </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>all I have to say for the ending of this is I’m Sorry........hope you enjoyed this angst, comments and kudos very much appreciated &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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